


Universal Law of Gravitation

by turante



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:15:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turante/pseuds/turante
Summary: How Lestrade and Sherlock met, one cold November night in 2005 and what inevitably happened.





	1. 2005

**2005**

One cold January night like many others, after Lestrade had just finished his shift at the Yard he walked his way home to get changed. It was not unusual for him to walk since he didn’t live too far away, and he liked how it cleared his head. That night he thought he would go for a drink, so he stopped at the flat merely to change his shoes and jacket and then went straight out, locking the door behind him. He crossed the street and got into the nearest pub, where he ended up every Friday evening for one reason or another.

He got in, and was welcomed by loud music and a slight fog, which wasn’t like every other Friday. It must have been some special occasion, only, he hadn’t bothered to check. He walked to the bar, sat down on a stool and ordered a whiskey, thinking that the patrons could go on doing whatever they wanted around him as long as nobody broke the law in a big, showy manner; he was still off duty after all.

His whiskey was slammed in front of him and then the barman moved on to fill a table’s orders.

A tall, lanky man, in his late twenties maybe, took the stool next to his. “Didn’t realise it would be so busy tonight,” the man said, quietly, the volume of his voice perfectly calibrated to be heard over the music but not sound like a scream.

Lestrade looked to his right and saw the man turned slightly towards him. He pointed at himself, not sure the man had been talking to him. It did sound more like he was thinking out loud.

“Oh, right, the flyers…” the man finished his thoughts silently and Lestrade just looked at him, curious. The other lifted a finger and ordered a drink, thinking that he had absolutely nothing to do right at that moment, and feeling up for some kind of social experiment.

He turned towards Lestrade once his drink had arrived. “Well… are you trying to forget a really dull day like I am?” he asked, eyeing the brown liquid in Lestrade’s glass.

The purpose of the whiskey was more or less that, in fact. To forget another boring day submerged by the paperwork of an impossible murder that had kept him out of his mind for weeks now.

“Might be, yeah.” He drank another gulp of whiskey, savouring the burning sensation down his throat, then put back the glass on the napkin.

“Are you doing anything fun later?” he asked, his eyes very intense and looking straight into his.

“Not really.” Lestrade answered, looking at the ice melting slowly in his glass.

“Do you want to?” he asked again, this time with a mischievous grin. It was impossible to miss what he was meaning, except that Lestrade wasn’t so sure _why_ he was hinting at _what_ he was hinting. The inspector raised an eyebrow and looked a bit inquisitive. “Are you asking…”

“I’m not a rent-boy.” The other stated, finishing his drink and getting off his stool. Then he pulled out a scarf from his pocket, folding it in two before putting it around his neck. “But yes, I’m offering some casual sex between two consenting adults. So?”

It was all so sudden and strange that Lestrade shrugged and let himself follow the man outside of the pub.

“Your place?” The man asked, his voice clearer and lower in the silence of the alley.

“Just around the corner.” Lestrade wondered briefly if taking home a stranger was a sound idea. But after all he had a gun, and knew how to use it. He would be fine.

They moved to the main street, Lestrade showing the way and Sherlock following him without a doubt, as if he had known their destination all along.

It was a nice part of town, not fancy, and the apartments weren’t very big or expensive, but they were conveniently located for someone working at Scotland Yard, and conveniently priced too.

Sherlock’s mind was taking in every detail, and narrowing down the possibilities. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the other man was a police officer. Not a constable, and someone who would get stuck with paperwork but still spend enough time on the field. Sergeant, or maybe Inspector were very likely possibilities. The man he was following had a certain stiffness in him, walked like a cop, and even spoke like one.

Lestrade stopped in front of a door and searched for the keys in his coat’s pockets. Sherlock saw that and decided to _help_. He walked close to the man and put a hand in the other pocket, having found it empty, he moved aside the coat and started examining the only other pockets the man had, that is to say, his trousers’ pockets. And he wasn’t trying to be subtle at it: after all he didn’t want to pickpocket the man, just to touch him and to get to know him better by having more information. And if he happened to find the keys they could move on to the bedroom and getting to know each other ever more intimately.

He didn’t find the keys, but an oyster card and a sensitive spot between the man’s thigh and crotch. He filed both pieces of information for later and slowly removed his hand when he heard the door click open.

Lestrade lived at the second floor, and Sherlock counted the steps out of habit ( _thirty-two_ ).

Then the inspector stopped in front of his door and was much quicker to open it than the front door.

Sherlock followed him inside, then pushed him against the inside of the door, slamming it closed before leaning over for a kiss. He was passionate, hungry almost to the point of being ravenous, and until now Lestrade hadn’t realised how much he had needed this. He needed the passion, the distraction and the relaxation that a one night stand could offer.

He wasn’t in the habit of pitying himself, so he knew he wouldn’t have regrets the following morning. He couldn’t know, but Sherlock’s brain was walking the same thought pattern, only quicker, and making some detours along the way.

Lestrade raised a hand and grabbed the other man’s hair, and he was rewarded by a soft moan in his mouth. He held him there and they fought for control of the kiss until they were out of breath. Then the man licked his lips and moved to kiss his neck, alternating soft kisses and light bites, lavishing Lestrade’s skin with more attention they had received in the last six months. He shivered and was very conscious of not having shaved that day, but Sherlock didn’t mind in the least, he liked the policeman the way he was, a bit rough, repressed and stiff. In more ways than one.

Lestrade grabbed the scarf around the other’s neck and undid it. When he was done he let it fall to the floor and then attacked the coat. They were too dressed for everything except going out, and he had a feeling they wouldn’t leave anytime soon.

Sherlock smiled and helped the inspector, unbuttoning the rest of the coat and then throwing it off. He didn’t care where it landed, but his mind registered a chair-like shape under it.

Lestrade tried to step away from the door and remove his jacket; long fingers came in help.

“Where is your bedroom?” asked the man as he finished undressing him, Lestrade’s eyes darted for a second in the right direction, and Sherlock kissed him again, pulling him close to his chest and then started walking backwards, heading to the right door.

He couldn’t ask how he had guessed, because he was too busy exploring his mouth with his tongue, but then Sherlock’s back touched the wood and pulled him close enough to crash him between the door and himself, and he sighed. It had been too long since he’d been this close to another hot body. He could not help but moan in anticipation, as the man moved to lick one of his ears.

“How much stamina do you have in bed?” he whispered the question, his warm breath on the wet skin made Lestrade shiver once. He wasn’t really interested in the answer, just in provoking him.

As for an answer, the inspector kissed him more roughly, rubbing himself against him.

“We’ll... see then,” the man judged, then he moaned once, shamelessly, when the man’s erection pressed against his side. He slid his hands down the other man’s back, clutching his buttocks and trying to make him repeat the gesture. He moaned again and Lestrade bit his lip.

“I don’t think we’ll get to the bed like this,” Lestrade admitted, a bit reluctantly, but Sherlock just smirked. He had other cards up his sleeve, and was determined to have what he wanted.

“Trust me,” he just said, then opened the door and went inside.

He didn’t even see the room, Lestrade guided him to the bed, kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt in the meantime. Sherlock had made the mistake of underestimating the man.

He was quick, but not quick enough for Sherlock, who in his eagerness to help almost popped a few buttons. Then his fingers moved to Lestrade’s shirt, and he took a moment to rub his hands along the man’s torso, caressing him through the shirt, and feeling the fabric under his fingers. It was medium quality cotton, probably a shirt bought from Marks & Spencer, not too expensive. He had no regrets about ripping it open.

Neither did Lestrade, even if he voiced a complaint, which Sherlock ignored. They were in his room, and Sherlock was sure there would be plenty more shirts like that one in the wardrobe. No use denying it.

There were more important things to do than worry about a few buttons.

Lestrade shrugged off his shirt and threw it on the floor, he was about to do the same with Sherlock’s but the man didn’t let him, instead he grabbed a handful of his salt and pepper hair and pulled him down for another heated kiss, raising his hips a bit in an attempt to rub himself again against the man, and Lestrade started to fear that if he didn’t do anything soon they would finish like this, like a couple of horny teenagers. And he was really looking forward to the prospect of shagging the man senseless.

“Stop,” he breathed, and the other stopped, looking up at his eyes, his own darker with excitement. His lips wet, red and a bit raw from the kissing. Sherlock was waiting for him to say something more, but after a few seconds of silence, he decided to go on, undoing the inspector’s belt, followed by his button and zip, until he could have access to what he needed the most.

Lestrade sighed when he didn’t feel constricted in his clothing anymore, and as soon as the other closed a hand around him his sigh became a soft moan. It had been too long indeed.

He tried to reciprocate, hands finding their way between layers of clothing until they touched hot, naked skin. He mimicked the slow caresses of Sherlock’s hand, which were teasing and exploring, not bent on giving him pleasure.

“I don’t even know your name,” breathed Lestrade, and the younger man captured his mouth for a kiss, bit his lower lip and sucked it until he moaned again, then and only then he dignified him with an answer that wasn’t really an answer.

“Neither do I,” he said calmly, biting his jaw, squeezing a little harder on his erection.

Lestrade silently agreed that it didn’t matter, that he deserved some uncomplicated sex, and with the other hand he started to push the shirt off the other’s shoulders. It was unnecessary for what he had in mind.

Sherlock left his cock only to toss the shirt off his arms, pushing it off the bed, then started pulling at Lestrade’s waistbands, trying to have him remove both trousers and underpants at the same time.

The inspector complied, kicking off his clothes, then reciprocated, kneeling on the bed to pull the rest of the clothes off the other man. He licked his lips as he admired the sight in front of him.

He feared he wasn’t going to last very long this time. It had been a long time, and with such a beauty in his bed, he knew his self-control had its limits and couldn’t guarantee much. Especially if said beauty tried everything to dissolve his control.

Sherlock was staring back at him, his gaze running along the inspector’s body in unveiled appreciation, which embarrassed Lestrade a bit, but he wasn’t going to complain.

A long hand grabbed his hair and dragged him towards hot, pliant lips and a clever tongue.

“Fuck me,” he breathed on his ear when he was done with the kissing, his voice low and full of desire.

Lestrade took a shaky breath and turned towards his drawer. This was not a good moment to try and recall if he still had some condoms left. A testimony to his sex life, undoubtedly, but unbearably frustrating. He cursed under his breath and reached the drawer, moving aside mismatched blue and brown socks, finding only an old receipt of an electric bill, a single-packaged aspirin and some paper clips.

He couldn’t even think.

Sherlock started kissing his neck, biting gently on his pulse, definitely not helping.

“I... fuck. Don’t...” he wanted so much to just do what the other man had suggested, but there was no way he could do it now.

“Get my trousers,” the other’s voice was still low and sexy, no hint of mockery or irony, he almost sounded needy. “Please,” he added, but in a demanding tone, urging him to do it, rather than begging.

Lestrade moved off him and searched in the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, picked up the black trousers and rummaged through the pockets to find a string of condoms and half a tube of lubricant.

Well, the boy certainly had had his mind set on how to spend the evening when he left, he thought.

He took a condom and tossed the rest on the bedside table, then opened the lube, squeezing a bit on his fingers. He looked at the man underneath him, is grey eyes fixed on his fingers, he looked impatient, eager even, and as he licked his lips Lestrade hesitated, wanting to hear his voice beg for it.

“Please, now,” he said, managing to sound annoyed by his incompetence as well as horny, which wasn’t easy.

Lestrade kissed that irreverent mouth and started probing him with a finger. He was rewarded with a sigh, and the man encouraged him with his moans and with his body as well, moving towards his finger. It was almost too intense for Lestrade. He pushed in a second finger, watching the other adjust to the intrusion, his mind repeating him _‘oh God, what will he do when I enter him’_ in a loop. And that wasn’t helping.

“Fuck, what are you waiting for? A written invitation?” Sherlock asked, white teeth marring an already bruised and swollen lip, and that captured Lestrade’s attention. He put the condom on and used some more lubricant, then positioned himself between the other’s legs. Sherlock closed his hand around his erection, making him groan out loud, then guided him towards his opening.

Lestrade closed his eyes when he started pushing, it was tight, hot and much more than what he remembered. And the man beneath him bit his lip, grabbed at the sheets and his pillow, looking so unbelievably sexy that he couldn’t bear to look for long.

He pushed slowly until he was completely in, then he stopped and took a shaky breath, it was time to get himself under control. He thought that his companion would need a moment too to get adjusted, and he kept still as he bent over to kiss him. Sherlock’s hands left the sheets and found a hip and a shoulder respectively, his teeth found Lestrade’s tongue and his hips shifted a bit.

When he left the inspector’s hands he breathed “move,” on his lips, one syllable of concentrated desire.

Lestrade groaned again, he was going to kill him, or make him come just with his voice.

“Move, now, please,” he commanded again, and Lestrade was nursing really inappropriate thoughts at the moment.

Lestrade withdrew as slowly as he had entered, then pushed back and heard a loud, shameless moan. He wasn’t sure who had moaned, so he repeated the gesture. It turned out that his companion was the author of those delicious sounds. He pushed his hips forward and joined him in another soft moan.

“More,” the other half-begged, half-commanded him, and Lestrade couldn’t not obey his voice, he thrust a bit harder and Sherlock arched his back, closing his eyes in a moment of pleasure. “More,” he asked, lustfully, this time, “please, I need- _oh fuck. That_!” he almost screamed while Lestrade was thrusting diligently into him, coherence leaving his brain more and more every time Lestrade brushed over his prostate. “Again. Oh. Please!” His breath getting shorter, his voice a bit rougher, deeper, with every moan, becoming a symphony for Lestrade’s ears. He bit his own lips, it was becoming difficult to hold back his release.

Sherlock’s hands were grasping at his skin, possibly even scratching, but he didn’t even notice the burn and pain of it, it was just more arousing. He opened his eyes and saw the abandon in the other man’s expression, the sensual haze he was in. It was too much for him.

“So close...” he panted, and felt the hand on his hip move away, to start frantically pumping the erection between them, and then he just focussed on himself, on thrusting into that tight passage until the world exploded behind his eyelids.

He felt warm stickiness on his abdomen and knew that he wasn’t the only one who had enjoyed it. Satisfied and exhausted, he slid out and tossed the condom in the bin, then hit the pillow and fell asleep.

A couple of hours later Lestrade woke up in his bed, sated, relaxed and with a pleasant ache in muscles that hadn’t been used like this in a while. He yawned and stretched a bit, then looked at the crumpled sheets around him, considering doing the laundry.

He felt the other side of the bed, it wasn’t cold yet, and there was a shirt on the chair next to the bed that didn’t belong to him. Maybe his guest hadn’t left yet. He grabbed some fresh boxers and went to the bathroom to freshen up. He put on a t-shirt and an old pair of pants. He saw the light coming from beyond his door.

When he entered the small and cluttered living room he found the young man he had slept with sitting on his sofa with a police file open on the coffee table in front of him. He was wearing Lestrade’s shirt and his own trousers, nothing more. He was also giggling.

Lestrade stood for a second in the doorway and just observed the man take out a piece of paper and a pinch of tobacco from a pouch lying beside a small pile of brown police files on the short table. Sherlock started rolling himself a cigarette without even looking, his eyes quickly scanning the police report, he could see them moving from left to right as he read.

He brought the paper to his mouth and his tongue peeked out to wet the paper and allow him to finish. Then he put the cigarette between his lips and lit it.

Lestrade saw his ashtray with another cigarette butt in it on the coffee table, placed almost on top of the police papers. He couldn’t let his one night stand ruin police files.

Hell, he couldn’t have him read them either!

He quickly crossed the distance to the sofa, closing the brown file in front of the young man.

“What are you doing, looking through these things?” Some of the folders in the pile had a red _confidential_ stamped across them. Actually, most of them did.

“Relax, _Detective Inspector Lestrade_ ,” Sherlock said, his voice rolling gently around his French surname, making it sound much more exotic than it was. As to how the man had gotten his name, Sherlock handed him the badge he might had pickpocketed the night before as well as when he was asleep in post-coital bliss.

Sherlock stretched and took a long drag from his hand rolled cigarette, then puffed out the smoke. “I thought I could help. I mean, that’s not why I hit on you last night. Even if I suspected you of being a police officer, it had more to do with your hair and the symmetry of your features.” It wasn’t just that, but Sherlock for once didn’t feel it necessary to offer a full detailed explanation. Especially since he was sure that Lestrade had stopped listening after the end of the second sentence.

“Help. Really. How?”

How to explain to the man that sarcasm was completely wasted on him? “For once I could tell you who the perpetrator is in this case, and I can help you prove it by asking one single question to the suspects.”

Lestrade, despite himself, was intrigued and didn’t interrupt him, yet.

“I assume you haven’t thought of asking them whether they had access to Warfarin or any other blood thinner.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, it all sounded so farfetched, he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to verify that, or at least if he would be able to ask that without sounding stupid.

“But why would I do that?”

Sherlock snorted, then put the cigarette back in his mouth. “I can explain it to you, it’s not hard at all if even the killer had figured it out. Look at the photo of the breakfast table. There’s a bottle of pineapple juice and a glass. Someone knew the man drank pineapple juice every morning, which would make the effect of the Warfarin double. So it was just a matter of time, waiting for the man to cut himself and bleed out. But the killer decided to speed things up, and this way even a normal accident could prove fatal.”

He finished his explanation in a flurry of speech. He talked for five minutes straight, explaining every detail and logical link as if it were apparent just from looking at the pictures and the brief police report.

When he had finished Lestrade blinked and then caught himself. “Oh, piss off. You’re making this up,” he then said, but in truth he was intrigued by that amazing leap in reasoning.

“You can check for yourself, and then you can call me and tell me how right I was.” He looked positively smug as he said that, and Lestrade wanted to smack him in the head and kiss him at the same time. Torn between the two, he did neither.

Sherlock leaned closer to him and offered him his cigarette.

“It’s not drugs,” Sherlock whispered at Lestrade’s hesitation.

“I didn’t say it was drugs.”

“No, but you wondered.”

And Lestrade thought he had a very good reason to, now that he had seen how sharp his cheekbones were and that he had such dark circles under his eyes: he did look more than an _occasional_ user.

Sherlock was still holding the cigarette between his long fingers, and Lestrade closed his lips around the filter, close enough to brush his fingers with his lips. It was such an intimate gesture, and Sherlock was looking in his eyes in a very distracting way.

“How did you know that I smoked?” he asked then, exhaling a puff of smoke gratefully.

Sherlock brought the cigarette back to his own lips. “Your fingers are stained by nicotine between the index and medium finger, and you were looking at my lips in a most indecent manner right now, not annoyed because I lit up a fag, just greedy, sensual, needy.” He smiled again, smug like before. It almost looked as if he enjoyed lecturing people.

Lestrade didn’t correct him to say that the expression of sensual desire was directed more at him than the cigarette.

He licked his own lips and they finished smoking the cigarette in silence, then Sherlock snubbed the butt into the ashtray and kissed Lestrade.

The detective inspector put a hand around his waist and pulled him against himself, guiding Sherlock to sit on his lap. He caressed the naked skin under his own open shirt, the idea of it so sexy he couldn’t close his eyes.

“You could phone Scotland Yard and prove that I was right,” Sherlock breathed against his lips, biting playfully his lower lip. Lestrade wondered how often the man got what he wanted just by asking. He looked like a spoiled rich kid, too. He mustn’t have heard _‘no’_ many times in his lifetime.

“Or I could fuck you again right now and close a cold case afterwards,” he answered, claiming possession of his mouth.

Sherlock made a sound in his mouth that he couldn’t decipher as being a sarcastic grunt, an excited groan or what else.

He decided to take it as an encouragement to continue.

“I still don’t know your name...” he said, leaving a trail of kisses on his neck.

“Sherlock Holmes. Trust me, you’re going to be saying it a lot in the future.” Sherlock meant that the DI would call on him for help on cases, but Lestrade took it in the sexual context they were in.

Useless to say, they were both right.


	2. 2008

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Sherlock recites the periodic table) a vignette of a moment in between those 5 long years they have known each other.

**2008**

He had known Sherlock Holmes for three years, one month and twelve days, and not for the first time he was getting worried that it could be exactly that the cause for his rapidly greying hair and his recent insomnia. This time he told himself that he should start taking better care of his own health. He could not get rid of the annoying sociopath, because every time he tried to put some distance between them the universe dropped a nasty impossible murder on his desk and a smug, handsome serial patience-killer in his office. Lestrade could still do something for his health, though.

That day Lestrade had finally decided to give up his smoking habit. He had known all along that it was an unhealthy, dangerous, and not to mention expensive addiction, and no matter how pleasant it was to indulge in it, he knew he should have stopped years before. He wasn’t getting any younger and each smoke brought him a step closer to his grave. But so did seeing Sherlock pop in at his crime scenes.

He sighed, finished what he had decided to be his last cigarette, snubbed it and threw it in a bin, then got the packet out of his pocket and crumpled it before making it follow that last single spent butt.

There had still been three or four cigarettes in the packet but he had discarded it anyway, because this time he really meant it.

He took out his lighter next, and threw that away too, better to remove all forms of temptation. Finally he took a deep breath, feeling lighter and more worried than he had the last few years.

He walked to the edge of the crime scene where he saw Sherlock Holmes, arguing with one of his sergeants again. He personally lifted the yellow ribbon to let him pass, and said nothing when the man flashed a cheeky grin to Donovan. She muttered something close to “freak”, but they both let it pass as if they hadn’t heard it.

Inside the perimeter Sherlock let Lestrade guide him to the corpse.

“You’ll like this one,” Lestrade said before he could even realise how _wrong_ that did sound. By now he was so used to the man and his strange habits that nothing about him surprised him. Much.

At least, the man was a real help to him, even if hell to work with. Not that he could work with him. He merely supervised that he didn’t contaminate the evidence, or better, that he didn’t nick any, and served as an idea bouncer from time to time. 

This murder was something that Sherlock found interesting, but he solved it quickly. That left Lestrade and his team to deal with witness statements and paperwork, the consulting detective having disappeared as soon as the _fun_ part had ended.

Later that evening, coming home from his office, he found Sherlock, barefoot and in his shirtsleeves, waiting for him in his apartment, draped on his sofa so that he took up all of the space with his long limbs. He had obviously chosen the sofa because it offered an excellent view of the door, which he had been staring at, waiting for him to arrive home. When he removed his coat Sherlock bent one leg so that one foot rested on the cushions.

Lestrade really hadn’t expected to find Sherlock in his apartment. Not that it hadn’t happened before, but it wasn’t that usual either. And Sherlock was looking so relaxed that he wondered if he wasn’t on some drug. Still, it was a pleasant surprise. Even more so because by now the consulting detective had trained his pavlovian response to a point which would make him think of sex every time he saw Sherlock away from a crime scene.

No doubt Sherlock found that amusing, or useful, but it was embarrassing to Lestrade.

Sherlock had smiled, pleased, when he felt the inspector’s attention turn on him, and barely looking down at his hands, he had taken a pinch of tobacco and started making himself a hand rolled cigarette.

He caught Lestrade’s doubtful expression, “it’s just tobacco,” he answered calmly, out of habit, then he rolled the paper to make the cylinder even, then licked the paper to finish up. When he was done he offered the tobacco bag to Lestrade to examine. Even he wasn’t arrogant enough to bring drugs to a policeman’s apartment.

The inspector sniffed briefly the tobacco and nodded, giving the bag back because he could not find anything wrong with it. And because the smell of it was becoming more tempting by the second, speaking to his subconscious about the countless hand rolled cigarettes he had shared with Sherlock in those three years, one month, twelve days and something.

Sherlock lit the cigarette up and took a long, satisfying drag from it, holding the smoke in his lungs for a second. He exhaled the smoke slowly, eyes half closed in pleasure. Lestrade’s gaze was fixed on his lips, and the slender fingers that held the white cigarette.

“I quit smoking today,” he said, his voice a bit huskier than what he had imagined it would be when he announced it to someone, but in truth, most of his blood had gone south of his belt, busy fuelling his arousal at the sight of Sherlock Holmes smoking, and now blowing little smoke rings. The man was clearly doing it on purpose; he knew he was doomed, but he couldn’t do anything to make himself turn away. He couldn’t help himself.

“Your problem, not mine,” the younger man told him when Lestrade got closer to the sofa, enough to breathe in the same air as Sherlock and inhale some second-hand smoke. Sherlock moved his long legs so that Lestrade could sit on his own sofa.

“Can you put that off?” he asked, a hint of bitterness in his plead. Sherlock saw him looking at the cigarette he held between his lips like it was the last oasis in the desert.

“No,” he answered impolitely, but that was hardly surprising. Lestrade licked his lips, but Sherlock spoke again before he could say anything. “And don’t give me a lecture on second-hand smoke,” he warned, shaking a bit of ash in the ashtray on the coffee table.

Lestrade touched Sherlock’s knee and licked his own lips. He knew he shouldn’t have been watching Sherlock smoke, the show was so sensual that he felt he couldn’t have been any harder, but he kept doing it anyway. He parted Sherlock’s legs, and the consultant detective put a foot down on the floor to make room for him on the sofa. He leaned over and looked at him in the eyes for a long moment, then he closed his hand around Sherlock’s fingers and took the cigarette. He struggled with his instincts, with his desires, then put it in the ashtray and closed the distance to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, mildly surprising the man, who thought his longing would have been for the tobacco, not his lips.

The kiss grew in intensity, becoming passionate and eager; Sherlock wasn’t going to be passive and let him have all the fun. Not this time. Not ever.

More than cigarettes, Lestrade now realised that he was addicted to the taste of Sherlock’s mouth, the unique flavour that was him and smoke and a just a hint of mint. They kissed and kissed until they had to stop to breathe, and Lestrade wanted more, more than what he could get like that on the sofa.

“Move,” he ordered, and Sherlock laughed. “My bedroom,” he added, and Sherlock exceptionally obeyed. But only because that was exactly what he wanted; what he had forced Lestrade’s front door for.

They hurried to the bed, Sherlock knew the way perfectly by now and could have probably walked it with his eyes closed.

Lestrade had been guiding him – entirely unnecessary, but he enjoyed the contact – and trying to undress him at the same time. Sherlock licked his lips, then brushed his hands away and took a step away from him, slowly undoing his own buttons, undressing himself for Lestrade, who craved to touch him.

He let the shirt fall on the floor, and looking in Lestrade’s eyes, undid the button of his trousers and then lowered the zip painfully slowly. Lestrade sighed; eyes fixed on the other’s body, and then started removing his own clothes.

It wasn’t long before all of their clothing was on the floor and they were on the bed, Sherlock kissing him like he was some addicting drug, making Lestrade’s head spin, even when he knew that the other man’s brain was still running a million thoughts a minute.

He rolled on top of Sherlock and made himself comfortable, one leg between his, slowly rubbing himself against him. He could feel Sherlock’s brain slow down a bit, and he decided that his mission that night was to make him stop thinking at all.

A couple of minutes would have to suffice, probably, but then he couldn’t perform miracles.

He started kissing the long white neck, grazing it with his teeth and when he found a spot that made Sherlock gasp a bit louder he started sucking.

“No, Lestrade...” Sherlock started squirming under him, but he kept him still and kept sucking until he had left a small red mark that would remain for a day or two.

“You always wear that scarf anyway.” He joked, then started kissing the same spot on the other side of his neck, without any intention of mirroring the hickey, but Sherlock took advantage of his distraction to push Lestrade off him and then invert their positions.

“What about I leave a mark on you then?” He said with a smirk, considering all the places that would be half-visible when Lestrade was fully dressed.

“A matching hickey so that tomorrow everyone at the Yard will know? I am quite sure there are bets going on about us.”

“I might need to cash in on Anderson,” said Sherlock, looking a bit distracted, so Lestrade grabbed his hips with both hands and pulled him against himself.

“Stop mind-fucking with my team,” he warned, “or we might have to stop _all_ of our interactions.” He knew that that wasn’t a serious threat, and Sherlock did too.

The other man snorted. “I would miss helping out the most stupid—”

Lestrade kissed him, taking advantage of the fact that a kiss was a very efficient way of shutting Sherlock up. There were other ways just as effective to keep his mouth too busy to talk, but a really passionate kiss when they were naked had achieved wonderful results so far. Besides, their discussion hadn’t been important at all.

Lestrade, however, knew that Sherlock was still thinking about the rest of his sentence, and the thought was bothering him. So he decided to help him forget. Or just render him unable to utter it when he had his mouth free.

He guided Sherlock against him another time, obtaining another soft gasp in his mouth, then he placed one hand on Sherlock’s buttock, giving it a squeeze, and finally went looking for his hole to tease.

Sherlock gasped, leaving his mouth to breathe and speak. “Lestrade...”

“I like it when you moan my name...” the inspector said, biting his lower lip as he started pushing just the tip in.

“I’m not moaning. Yet,” Sherlock corrected him, making Lestrade smile.  
The consulting detective was thinking whether he could reach the lube and condoms in the drawer without moving from that position or not. It didn’t take long to figure it out, but it did take longer to take the decision to move away from Lestrade’s body. And that was a weakness he was still not ready to admit.

So Sherlock lifted his hips and stretched to open the drawer Lestrade kept their supplies, retrieving everything while the inspector had decided to occupy his time in the exploration of his chest through the use of his mouth, which yielded the wonderful result of extorting some shameless moans from Sherlock. And that was the sort of result Lestrade cared for when behind closed doors with Sherlock.

“Sorry, am I distracting you?” asked Lestrade, smiling against one nipple, before taking it in his mouth and biting it playfully.

“Depends. I can still recite the periodic table,” Sherlock started, then let out a soft moan when Lestrade bit the other nipple. “Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium—” he started, his voice low in register and sensual, but still lecturing.

“I wonder how long you can keep going.”

“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock asked him, then uncapped the lube and put some on Lestrade’s fingers.

“I can’t decide,” replied the inspector, grabbing the other man’s hair and kissing him roughly. He started slowly and carefully fingering him.

“Beryllium—seriously, I can go on—Boron, Carbon. Oh...” he paused for a second, closing his eyes, then continued as if nothing had happened. “Nitrogen, Oxygen, hmmm, Fluorine.”

Lestrade was extremely amused by this. He could literally use it to measure Sherlock’s cerebral activity. “Go on,” he encouraged, adding a second finger to stretch him, deliberately taking his time as Sherlock started listing the elements of the third period.

“Neon. Then Sodium, Magnesium—oh my God.” His eyelids shut closed and Sherlock tilted his head back, exposing his neck, and Lestrade decided to take full advantage of it. He started sucking on Sherlock’s neck like he had done before, accentuating the hickey, and the man almost growled. “Magnesium then... Aluminium.” Lestrade noticed that he had slowed down.

He started stretching him more with his fingers, while being slow and careful, knowing that Sherlock always became impatient before he was done with a through and proper job.

“Silicon, Phosphorus and please, I need more than that,” he said, closing his hand around Lestrade’s erection. He needed that inside him. “Sulphur, Chlorine...”

Lestrade sighed and removed his fingers, guiding Sherlock along his body to make them both comfortable. He guided himself towards Sherlock’s opening, and the man lowered his hips, engulfing him in his tight heath. Lestrade swore under his breath, and Sherlock softly whispered “Ah... Argon.”

The inspector bit his lip to hide a grin, even if Sherlock had his eyes closed, it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t know. He gripped the hips a bit harder and encouraged him to start moving. “Interesting, Argon, then?”

Sherlock inhaled slowly once, then exhaled, to regain enough concentration to go on. “Then Potassium, and calcium, then... the metals.” He raised his hips and together they set a slow, sensual rhythm. “Scandium,” he raised his hips almost completely, “Titanium,” and he lowered them until Lestrade was again fully sheathed in him. “Hmm Vanadium, I think.”

Lestrade kissed him, interrupting for a while his flow of thoughts, and more importantly, his speech. “You think,” he joked then, raising his hips to go meet his movement. “Not sure?”

Sherlock bit his lower lip and nodded. “Vanadium,” he repeated, “then Chromium. Oh. Yes.” Then he moaned and quickened his pace, Lestrade sometimes thrusting up. “Manganese—fuck! There, Lestrade. Iron. God, more!” he moaned, his breath getting more and more irregular and his concentration wavered. He was getting dangerously distracted, but so was Lestrade. And honestly, he had lost Lestrade at Helium, so he could have continued enumerating random names and still fooled the inspector. But Lestrade was sure he wouldn’t cheat like that, he knew him too well.

“More,” Sherlock begged, his voice dripping with need, and Lestrade closed one hand around his erection, stroking it in time with Sherlock’s hips, which were now moving at a frantic rhythm, making the feeling in his loins tighten as he got closer to his climax every time Sherlock went down on him.

“Cobalt. Hmn, Nickel, Zinc. Ah. Fuck, no, I mean, yes, oh God, so close... so... fuck, Lestrade—“ then he almost shouted his pleasure as he spilled his seed all over the inspector’s hand.

Lestrade still gripped his hip, so hard that he could have left a bruise, and kept him moving for a little longer, just a bit more until he reached his orgasm.

Sherlock sighed contentedly and then got off him and sprawled himself on the bed, half across Lestrade, and taking up as much of the mattress as he could. The inspector knew from experience that Sherlock, even as thin as he was, could take up more than half of his bed. (He still hadn’t found an explanation for the fact, but was working on it.)

Lestrade sighed, and they remained like that for a while trying to get their breath back and their heartbeats to normal. 

After a few peaceful minutes of silence, Sherlock murmured a “Oh,” like those he breathed when he understood something trivial at a crime scene.

“What?” asked Lestrade, still too relaxed to manage honest curiosity or sarcasm.

Sherlock giggled against his shoulder.

“What now?” he asked again, a bit brusquely this time.

“I think I forgot Copper,” he confessed, “you... were distracting.”

Lestrade smiled to himself. “Thank God.”

Another little pause, then Sherlock grunted “You quit smoking,” he said, as if that was self-explanatory.

“I will never understand you.” Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock in the eyes, in the hope of having some clues on how the other man’s brain worked.

“Do you still have cigarettes in the drawer?” the other asked, feeling like he was spelling out something elementary to a child.

“What? No, you’re not smoking in my bedroom.” 

Sherlock looked disgruntled. “You still have some then,” he stated, then turned towards the open drawer.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lestrade threatened, but didn’t have the energy to do more than protest verbally.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think I have the energy to resist.”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him on the lips once, softly. “That’s me, a heartless corruptor of virtuous detective inspectors.” He reached inside the drawer and grabbed the packet, extracting a cigarette and the lighter, then he sat up and put the stick between his lips before he lit it up. “Or you could always say I’m removing temptation.”

Lestrade groaned, unable to stop himself staring at Sherlock smoking. It was the second time that day, already. And Sherlock was staring back at him, studying his reactions.

“How is your self restraint going?”

“Crumbling quickly.” The inspector sat up as well, propping his back against the pillows.

“Do you want me to stop you?” Sherlock asked, placing a hand on his chest, ready to physically stop him.

“I think I can take care of myself,” but truthfully, Lestrade knew he was doomed the moment he took the lit cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers and brought it to his own lips.

He had never realized that he had been doomed from the moment he had spoken to that handsome stranger in the pub three years, one month and twelve, no, thirteen days before.


End file.
